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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695318">Of demons and little monsters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Simo/pseuds/La_Simo'>La_Simo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sons of Anarchy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Hallucinogens, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Strong Language, Tiggy is so broken, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wahewa magic mushrooms, a lot of thoughts, but also so strong</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Simo/pseuds/La_Simo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During Stockton's stint in prison, between S3 and S4, Tig faces the most awful of his inner demons by far. Descending into his personal hell will lead him to "someone" who could help to fix demons and guilt. Monsters aren't always evil as we think.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Of demons and little monsters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <em>"I've failed, Donna,...I'm so sorry."</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"I know."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1.</p><p>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>The air in prison was a dirty, chipped crystal in which those hits rang and echoed like many small explosions. Especially in that cell, a rectangle with greenish walls, uncomfortable beds and a neon light that cut people and things.<br/>People?...<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>He heard unrepeatable phrases, blasphemies, devilishly laughters, people barking in an obscene slang, then the guards barked something every now and then and everything turned quiet for the next five minutes. Stockton. Stockton and his whole load of crap.<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>They had been inside for a year now and none of them had gone mad yet. Nor dead. Good. But there were six of them, six die-hard sons of a bitch. Six of SAMCRO’s, who now, stripped of their glorious and infamous kutte, wore a very different uniform: the anonymous, blue prison uniform. Wide and uncomfortable. Which made them the same as everyone else. Blacks, Latinos, Whites, thieves, murderers, drug dealers, crazy psychos staring into the void, thirsty for blood.<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>They met during the yard time. Clay was usually quiet: the news from outside was good. Gemma brought to him, sometimes Chibs,… it always depended on what kind of news they wanted to get him. Jax often saw Opie, and also Tara who had obtained, after many weeks of pressure, to introduce the young man to his newborn son.<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>They were only a few months away from their release, and no one had to remain unaware of what happening, what was going on around them, to the Club and Charming. Especially Tig. He had to be informed about everything. Ironically, Kozik updated him, which had made him turn up his nose several times. A brother, a deep friendship like those of which he was really capable, ... before some never explained shit forced him to end everything. When Kozik came back, a year earlier, he had twice voted NO to his patching in the main charter, and it ended in a memorable brawl between billiard and the bar that everyone at the club still remember. Everyone in SAMCRO knew it was unwise to attract the hatred of the Sergeant at Arms. Or at least not THAT Sergeant ...<br/>Kozik had defied that unwritten rule, and they both ended up snarling and hitting each other like angry, wild oxes.<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>It was a couple of times that Kozik didn't show up for interviews, and Chibs came in his place. Who knows what was happening...<br/>However, the Scotsman had never mentioned anything to him, and Tig had been very careful not to ask. Whatever the fuck he wanted, that blonde pussy.<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>How long for the yard time? He missed the other bastards, and besides, he had guys to talk to, and to ask Clay if that thing he asked had moved. If only he could silence everything…to silence what was tearing his brain apart… what the fuck was happening to him?<br/>TUMP ... TUMP ... TUMP ...<br/>What…<br/>“Tig, holy shit, stop it !! What the fuck! "<br/>Tig Trager, Sergeant at Arms of the Sons of Anarchy, a giant with dark, curly hair and sharp eyes, stopped beating his foot rhythmically against the iron of the cot, which he had been doing for a few minutes, and that helped him to get lost in his own thoughts, and grinned at his inmate without getting upset.<br/>“Oh, so sorry, Tinkerbell. Did I disturb your moment of lonely productivity? "<br/>From the cot beneath his, Tig heard Juice shift position and snort.<br/>"Fuck you, Tig."<br/>He chuckled: how brave, the boy. He paid no attention to him and jumped off the top cot. Not that he had anywhere to pace around in that rectangular box, so he stopped in front of the massive riveted steel door, and leaned his forehead against the cold metal.<br/>"I'm going fucking crazy."<br/>"Well, that’s an improvement."<br/>What Tig thought to had said in a voice low enough to be heard only by his own ears, had reached Juice's as well. And he hadn't thought about it for a second. Tig turned slowly.<br/>“Do you know why I don't break your pretty little face right now? Because is too fucking narrow and after a while I would end up getting bored of you constantly banging against my fist. "<br/>Not even Tiggy, however, was used to thinking too much.<br/>It was another five days before Clay showed him a tiny brown paper bag in the yard under the blinding sun.<br/>“Hey…” he called back before dropping it into his palm “I don't wanna know which of your pastimes you asked me this stuff for. I just want to make sure you know how to use this Wahewa bullshit, I'm not going to have all the guards sticking on my ass for indulging your free time."<br/>Tig fearlessly returned Clay's hard gaze, almost challenging him.<br/>"I have no problem with these candies, Clay… and I'm not ten years old."<br/>It wasn't like Tig to foist such a sharp answer to the President, after had been his shadow and (heavily) armed hand for all those years, but it had been a few weeks that something dark and ferocious had started screaming in Tig's head, and this time he didn't want to explain. Not even to Clay. Especially to Clay.<br/>Tig wasn't stupid, he knew what it was. What frightened him most was giving it a name. Because it meant looking inside, shedding light in his darkness, giving voice to his conscience. And this thing terrified him. <em>Never bitching with conscience, Tiggy, or everything will be screwed.</em> He used to say it to himself every time he had to go down one step further into the shit, to get more blood for the Club. For Clay. Until that time. The last time.<br/>Clay peered at him in silence, and Tig felt on him those cold eyes trying to penetrate his soul to seek truth. Then the President reached his hand out, and he felt the small bundle of textured paper in his. <em>"Say whatever bullshit, Tiggy ..."<br/></em> “Jesus, Clay, is such a pain in the ass all day watching Juice do push-ups, or hearing him babbling idiocies. I deserve some distractions. At least you got Jax,… he'll put a fucking talk on you every now and then, right? "<br/>Clay laughed and patted him on the shoulder.<br/>"Brother, it could have been worse, it could be Happy."<br/>The image was disturbing enough to amuse him, so he laughed with him, and went back to join the others sweating under the sun that almost melted the boiling tar under their feet.</p><p> </p><p>2.<br/>At night, Stockton was a huge concrete monster that held its breath. But that fetid air of its, full of terrible things, filthy secrets closed behind steel doors, that never changed. And it was dark, and in the dark some demons screamed more than others. Tiggy banged his head against the wall, sitting on his cot high up, his back against the wall.<br/>In his big hands he twisted the tiny paper bag over and over, without making up his mind. He wondered if he was doing the right thing: he wasn't usually the type to ask himself too many questions, but he was terrified that the Wahewa magic mushrooms might make him completely unroof. In the cot beneath him, Juice mumbled in his sleep, threw the blanket away, and keep on sleeping. Tig banged his head against the wall again, began to poke at his lips with his fingernails.<br/>Finally he unwrapped the sachet. It was too dark to see them well, but Tig knew they were small, dry, dark mushrooms chips smelling disgusting. He hadn't lied to Clay: he had tried them before, he knew how they worked, and he took just enough for them to take effect without messing his brain up. He took a piece of it between his teeth. He touched it with his tongue then bit precisely. They always taste of rotten and dirt. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as he waited for everything to drown in those swaying spirals.<br/><em>"And now screw you, Tiggy."</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>TIG POV.</strong><br/><em>I know well how to do my job. It's a fucking hell of a job, and that's why there is no one at the club who can do it as well as me. Everyone would be fucked up at the thought of what I've always done, what I do ...<br/></em> <em>Maybe Clay. Maybe he would be able to, but he let me do it. Because Tiggy knows how to do it.<br/></em> <em>Because he doesn't make mistakes. Because he doesn't give a shit.<br/></em> <em>Because he doesn't make mistakes.<br/></em> <em>No mistakes.<br/></em> <em>No mistakes.<br/></em> <em>Jesus Christ. Why? Why me?<br/></em> <em>Those shrooms make me sick. Who the fuck buys such shit.<br/></em> <em>He hasn't failed.<br/></em> <em>It's dark. No, that's not true… there are lights, but I don't know where the fuck I am.<br/></em> <em>There are orange lights… there are,… I've been here before but I never wanted to come back here,… fucking mushrooms.<br/></em> <em>Tiggy can do it, make him do it, he's not afraid to drown into shit.<br/></em> <em>Isn't true that these mushrooms taste like rotten ... they taste ...<br/></em> <em>He doesn't fail...<br/></em> <em>There are orange lights and someone next to me. It's dark, but there are also lights. Who's here?<br/></em> <em>These shrooms taste of ... of ...<br/></em> <em>Get Tiggy do it.<br/></em> <em>I'm doing it tonight, after the party… orange lights and a deserted street.<br/></em> <em>Tiggy doesn't give a fuck about anything, let him do it ...<br/></em> <em>It's cold. Has it always been such cold? It's dark but I see him anyway. I see him… I've seen him many times before. He doesn't stop even if I cry to stop. He doesn't give a shit, I know, that's why he does it. And he doesn't hear me. Even if I cry. Why am I screaming?<br/></em> <em>Who the fuck is the son of a bitch that shot?<br/></em> <em>Damn shitty mushrooms, this is the last time I take them. They suck, Jesus Christ, they taste like...<br/></em> <em>Stop, you fucking douchebag, stop… it's not who you think it is, it's her, just her. You dickhead, go away!<br/></em> <em>Tiggy can do it, he doesn't give a shit ... he doesn't makes mistakes.<br/></em> <em>It's still dark, and that noise is so deafening ... Jesus, it breaks my head, just like ...<br/></em> <em>He didn't stop… I screamed all the time, but he never hears me, and he shoots. HE SHOOTS.<br/></em> <em>And she's in there, but she wasn't supposed to be in the truck. It wasn't supposed to be her. And her head explodes, shit… I see it shattering like it's made of glass. Her head splits, and my head splits as well, like hers.<br/></em> <em>He doesn't fail.<br/></em> <em>I tried to stop him the other times too, but ... but it's late and he has already done what he had to do, what he was told to do, what seemed right to him. Only it was her. And she didn't have a shit to do with it. And his head had already exploded in a shower of blood before the last ammo came out of that damn uzi. It's cold and it's still dark. With the orange lights. A street and a traffic light.<br/></em> <em>He doesn't fail.<br/></em> <em>But yes, he does, Donna.<br/></em> <em>I've failed. You know it too, even if you keep looking at me with those empty eyes. I've failed and my head shattered like yours.<br/></em> <em>These shrooms suck, Jesus Christ...I'm gonna to puke.<br/></em> <em>Opie knows, Donna. I told him. I wanted to die but the boys stopped him to punch me. Opie knows. Yet I would like to die anyway. I failed, Donna. And I don't know how to live as before since that night.<br/></em> <em>I'm not alone anymore. Is still dark, there are always orange lights on the road, and Donna is still dead on the steering wheel, with half her head on the windscreen... yet ...<br/>She is next to me and smiles. She's a woman but she's not a woman. Jesus, what the...</em><br/><em>She looks at me with Donna's eyes but it's not really her ...</em><br/><em>I've failed, Donna, but Opie knows, I told him ...I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, Donna.</em><br/><em>It's Donna, but she's still dead. She's dead…yet she looks like a doll, an ugly, shitty old doll with Donna's blue eyes.</em><br/><em>Fucking mushrooms, ... they taste like ...</em><br/><em>I failed, Donna.</em><br/><em>She smiles, and I'm starting to freak out. She is coming towards me, smiling. It's Donna but her face is strange, even stranger than Donna's with half her head on the glass. She stopped next to me. I'm terrified by dolls, those fucking shit with arms and legs and those ugly faces… and this is a shitty doll with Donna's face. And is a hundred times better Donna's face with half of her head blown off. A shower of blood.</em><br/><em>I’ve failed, Donna. I was supposed to do it, but I've failed, I'm sorry, Donna, so sorry, Donna. Opie knows.</em><br/><em>I've failed, Donna. And she doesn't say a thing, she just comes close looking at me.</em><br/><em>Fucking shrooms. Fuck the Wahewa, as soon as I go out I setting fire to all your flea shacks,... just shit that tastes like ...</em><br/><em>I'm so sorry, Donna, I failed, I failed.</em><br/><em>She is next to me and smiles. She smiles and then… then she takes something from my hands. I had something in my hand and she takes it from me. Calmly. And kindly. And she smiles, this ugly fucking doll.</em><br/><em>I failed, Donna, I'm so sorry. Now I see what she took from my hands.</em><br/><em>"I know." she tells me. And in her hands has my ...holy shit, how disgusting these mushrooms ... my uzi ... I …she took it from me. My hands… she took it from my hands.</em><br/><em>I shoot it, Donna ... I was wrong, I'm so sorry.</em><br/><em>"I know." and smiles with my uzi in hand.</em><br/><em>... they taste like...</em><br/><em>... my hands ... I shoot,... sorry, Donna ...</em><br/><em>... they taste like...</em><br/><em>BLOOD!</em><br/><em>They taste like blood, fucking Wahewa!</em><br/><em>... on my hands, ... blood ...</em><br/><em>…BLOOD!</em></p><p> </p><p>“Tig, you damn prick, get your shit together or I have to call someone! Jesus Christ, leave me!! "<br/>The breath pressed into his chest, the taste of blood in his mouth, Juice's shirt tight between his fingers as if it were the last grip on who knows what fucking mental sanity. It was still dark, but there was no longer a deserted midnight street, no orange light. Nor that ...<br/> "<em>That face, Jesus..."</em><br/> He blinked to dispel the darkness, but the darkness remained. He looked around: at least it was a darkness he knew, and it was already more reassuring. Reality slowly molded itself around him. Cold bare walls, metal bars against his back, Stockton's dirty air, and Juice's big eyes on him. He swallowed. Juice was there beside him, holding him by the white t-shirt. He let him go, pushing him away abruptly, as if he had been hot: how was that possible? <br/>"Tig, fuck, you freaking me out!"  the young man grumbled getting back on his feet. Tig said nothing, he still didn't have the strength, nor the courage. And he was busy looking in his mind for a connection to reality. He had the revolting taste of mushrooms mixed with blood in his mouth.<br/> <em>"</em><em>Blo-..."</em><br/> He had run a finger over his lips and withdrawn it stained red. Had he bitten himself?<br/> <em>"Calm down, Tiggy,...is okay."</em><br/>He puts force on his knees, then on his thighs and stood up, ignoring the head that would not stop buzzing. The sturdy bars of his cell. Yet he was up there, laying on the cot. He stared at the bars as if they could give him an answer.<br/> <em>"Jesus Christ, I got up."</em><br/> He ran a hand over his face, then through his thick hair, and a shiver hit him.  Had he… cried? Juice was a figure in the dim light, but his gaze caught up him, almost clawing at it in the dark.<br/> "I screamed?"  he asked him in a low voice: he was almost afraid of the answer, but the young man shrugged.<br/> "You made a big mess, you said a lot of bullshit, and you were doing some more, holy shit."<br/> Silence. Juice walked over him, but he dodged him, then get past him.<br/> "Move away."<br/> Jesus Christ, he had gone so close from making such a mess, as usual. Fuck, what an idiot. <br/> <em>"Cut it down, Tiggy!"</em><br/> How could he have allowed it? He shouldn't have let that thing inside him take over. Not this way.<br/> “I… had a nightmare. I've been sleeping like shit, lately. "  he grumbled, and he hadn't even lied. He closed his hand around the little paper bag, which remained up there, on the bed.  "Go back to sleep, princess."<br/>He remained standing, silent, while Juice threw himself back into the cot, muttering things between his teeth that Tig didn't understand, and of which, however, he didn't care much. In the restored quiet of that strange night made of demons and little monsters, Juice's breathing soon turned into a soft snore. Tig began to think clearly again: he found the sink faucet in the corner of the cell, turned it on and threw two handfuls of cold water in his face. Still dripping, he walked over to the toilet bowl, spat, threw the bag with the rest of the dry shrooms chips in, then flushed the water. He no longer needed them. Juice's more regular snoring said the young Puerto Rican had gone back to deep sleep.<br/><em>"Which is exactly what I should do</em> <em>too, Goddamn. Sleep."</em><br/>He got back on the cot, letting himself fall heavily on the stiff mattress.  As if the hallucinatory mushroom dream had sucked all his demons away, Alexander Trager finally fell into a sleep of stone, ... devoid of that heartbreaking cry that was his guilt for accidentally killing the innocent wife of one of his brothers. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>3.<br/>"I want this."<br/>Vinnie looked up at the tall man who had just entered, and that had slammed on the table a paper napkin with one of the shittiest scribbles he had ever seen on. He knew that man. At least in name and fame. He knew what his colors were and what was said about him. He had approached him the week before, in the yard, away from his brothers. Then he had handed him a couple of greens while the guards lit a cigarette and kept an eye on two rival groups that were getting too hot.<br/>“As soon as you have managed to put together shit you need. The sooner the better.” he told him bluntly. He had nodded, then immediately set off: people like him, who tattooed inmates, got a little extra income with which to live better in that hell. The guards rented them a room in a disused wing of the building, pocketed a small percentage and looked away. Everyone happy. It was absolutely forbidden and yet all those felons continually sprouted designs of dubious taste and names surrounded by thorns and burning hearts ...<br/>Vinnie 'The Surgeon' had earned a certain fame, and a nickname that showed what he could do. Whether with a knife or a tattoo pen.<br/>"Holy shit, Trager!" he exclaimed with a whistle and a laugh, taking the napkin and looking at that drawing more closely “It's ugly as hell! Are you sure you want such crap on you? "<br/>In response, Tig got rid of the blue shirt and shaking his dark curls sat down sprawled.<br/>"She is. Mind your fucking business. Let's start, we don't have all day. "<br/>Tig didn't watch him prepare the necessary: he just stood there, frowning and thoughtful as if his mind had other shit to deal with. As if that tattoo wasn't actually something pleasant. He felt the stroke of the pen on his skin: Vinnie was redrawing the sketch on him.<br/>“No, ok… listen… you'll be able to do better, just don't change it. Don't change face, don't change body… don't change anything. Just do it...”<br/>“…Less ugly. Aye, man, I'm working on it. Doing worse would be quite hard. "<br/>Tig laughed.<br/>“You're such a prick, Vinnie. Now make that tool buzz before one of those motherfuckers being a pain in the ass.”<br/>"Do you want this shit to be decent, or not?"<br/>Tig's tone hardened, like his liquid stare straight ahead.<br/>“It doesn't have to. It just has to be there. "<br/>Vinnie said nothing and continued to draw a version he believed better than the one on the napkin.<br/>"Is it on the clavicle?" Tig asked instead. Vinnie raised an eyebrow.<br/>“You told me you wanted it to be seen. If I do it on the clavicle it's gonna sucks twice as much as it already is."<br/>Silence.<br/>"Make it show. And on the clavicle."<br/>Vinnie knew that Trager was kinda weirdo, but he had only a few small chats with him before that moment… he had never seen that spark of lucid madness that now shone in the back of his eyes. However, he was not in the best position to judge anyone, so he kept his thoughts to himself and lit the modified pen that was the tattoo gun. He started: if he hurried and was careful, he could be able to finish right away. The outline was something that never took too much time, so he could dedicate himself to coloring calmly. Tig stood motionless, eyes closed, his back leaning back on the chair. Twenty minutes later he was already intent on filling his long hair with black; he had already made the shoes, part of the dress and the lips.<br/>“I have to move up, now… there is the tendon, the bone… it will be… well, a little annoying. Tilt your head, I don't see shit. "<br/>"Since when someone like you get shitless on an ink, Vinnie?" Tig chuckled as he obeyed and tilted his head to the right "Do what you have to do, I don't give a fuck, I just have to get out of here with her on."<br/>It started to be painful, actually: the needle of that tool – putted together by Vinnie himself, with the small driver attached to a battery - did not always maintain a constant speed, and Tig sometimes felt the needle penetrate drop after drop, hitting the bone. He didn't say a word, didn't move a muscle. Tiggy had deliberately chosen to ink his collarbone and pecs: he had to see her, had to hurt. And he had to feel that pain until the end. One drop at a time. He wanted to feel it.<br/>The night he dumped a hail of uzi in Donna's head by mistake, while everyone was trying to survive that tragedy, he was holed up, shocked, in his dump, crashing his forehead against a mirror, such was the anger and the loathe he felt towards himself. Not only for the first time in his life he failed a task charged to him, but he had killed the wife of one of his brothers stone-blood. A young woman who had nothing to do with their shit, who had two children to raise the best she could, who had defended the club even though she didn't always approve it. Donna, Jesus Christ, Donna!<br/>Tig had downed a bottle of tequila and dropped dead to the floor, blood dripping halfway down his face… the way he'd last seen her. This was how he would remember poor Donna forever… a poor innocent whom he had blown her head off for the lies of that psycho ATF bitch.<br/>Then, from there, a quick descent into a dark hell of self loathing and pain. A pain that he had carried in silence and with dignity for months. Until he couldn't stand it anymore and told everything to Opie.<br/>Better killed by Opie than by guilt. And Opie's furious punches would surely have killed him if the boys, Jax first, hadn't stopped him. Tig hadn't even told him that Stahl had been behind that mess… he had given up everything. To justify oneself, to speak, to tell the truth. To defend themselves. He just wanted to pay, he wanted to die… that wasn't fucking life anymore… but the others had stopped Opie's desperate fury, so he had tried to explain the truth.<br/>He did not seek absolution, he did not seek forgiveness. But that at least Opie understood that they had all been pulled in by the trap that Stahl had cleverly built around them. Mistaken herself too, but still signing their hell. Even now, with that tattoo, Tig wasn't looking for absolution nor forgiveness. He was just looking for a way to be less disgusted by himself.<br/>Vinnie continued to work without pausing except to clean the outlines of what was being born under his pen from too much ink: a doll with long hair, huge eyes and an uzi in her hands. On Trager's chest. To the left. The head on the collarbone and the body down to the pecs.<br/>"Your baby is almost ready, man."<br/>Only then Tig look down and saw her. Like in that fucking shroom vision. He felt his stomach crumple.<br/>"Who is she? Is she waiting for you outside? She must be a tough girl ... "<br/>"She's a mistake." Tig didn't even let him finish: his voice was hoarse and sharp as the blades that Vinnie liked so much. “She's my mistake. My fault. And every drop of that fucking ink is a reminder. To me and to others. I always have to see her, everyone has to see her. I always have to be able to look into her eyes. And if I could have inked it on my brain, I'd already be here with my head split open."<br/>Vinnie was an outlaw, no more and no less than the others, yet Tig Trager had succeeded in the hard task of making him uncomfortable.<br/>"I… I added a rose…" he blabbed for no reason.<br/>It was his voice. He had spoken out of the blue, feeling like an idiot, only to interrupt that speech and exorcise those disturbing words.<br/>"... here, between the hands and the uzi."<br/>Tig just nodded and imperceptibly curling his upper lip in one of his characteristic grimaces no one had yet been able to understand what it meant ... approval, blame, fury, impatience. Maybe none of this, or all of this put together.<br/>Alexander Trager was a complicated, difficult, disturbed man… because, even though he lived in extremes where all his emotions were at the top, it was impossible to grasp his mental path. How, that tormented man, processed thoughts and emotions, no one knew. And going into that black labyrinth of demons and thorns that was his mind was of no interest to anyone. Still, more time and more equally deep darkness would have to pass, for someone to finally be able to bring him a little light. And above all a little peace, without stopping at the appearance of fear that strike his figure.<br/>The needle stopped buzzing, and Tig was reached by the pungent smell of alcohol: Vinnie was rubbing a paper towel wet with cheap alcohol on him to give a summary disinfection to his skin.<br/>"Usually I couldn't do it, but ..." he burst out laughing amused "... but after you one of those gorillas in uniform has to finish a tattoo, and he pisses me off because he always wants to see it, such pussy,... so I have a mirror, if you want to see better how it turned. "<br/>He handed him a cheap little mirror wedged in a frame of thin pink plastic, dirty and chipped, but still a comfort in there.<br/>Tig looked at himself. At her.<br/>She was there, as he wanted, colored black, surrounded by the halo of red and swollen skin abused by that very unconventional needle. Jesus Christ, it was her... that fucking doll with his uzi in her hand, and Donna's big eyes.<br/><em>I've failed, Donna,... I'm so sorry.<br/></em> <em>"I know."<br/></em> For a moment he felt that sickening taste of dirt and blood in his mouth again. He shivered. Then he shrugged and returned Tig Trager. The usual Tig Trager.<br/>"They no lied about you, Vinnie, ... you're good." he said as he dressed.<br/>"They no lied about you too, Trager." Vinnie let him slip. Here it is, that crazy yet shiny light in Tig's terrifyingly blue eyes. He clawed his shoulder and offered him a tiger smile.<br/>“Oh yes… also because my specialty is to take off inks. A nice flame and everything melts like sugar on cream. Fffshhh…" he hissed, mimicking a sound Vinnie wouldn't want to hear. Nor to know what was about.<br/>Vinnie swallowed. Then a moment later it was all over, the spark was gone, and Trager greeted him with a couple of friendly pats on the same shoulder he was about to crush.<br/>"You did a good job, Vinnie, thanks." A wink before leaving "Take care."<br/>When the guard came in shortly after to finish the tattoo, it was the breath of normalcy for Vinnie that he didn't know he could want.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>4.</p><p>It was sunny that morning, and Tig couldn't wish for anything better. Juice dressed talking non-stop bullshit to which he paid no attention, but for once the boy made him laugh, so he decided that for that day he could bear it without scrambling him by the scruff like a too exuberant puppy. In fact, he threw him a couple of his own jokes because only now he had noticed the thick hair on the Juice's head, usually all shaved with his untouchable mohawk, and he suddenly found this hilarious. He too had dressed and it was like putting on his own skin.<br/>That morning they would leave Stockton to return to their life, pushed to the maximum like the throttle of the bike. The only life they knew, to bite and stun while there was. Shirtless and with only his dark jeans on, Tig hurriedly slipped into his blue shirt. Then he remembered her and smiled to himself.<br/><em>“Let's get out of here, little monster. We're leaving."<br/></em> She returned her gaze, and Tig inhaled slowly: she had the uzi, helped him to carry that inhuman weight that would have crushed anyone. She had taken some of her demons and allowed him to breathe without feeling dying inside each fucking time. Tig Trager touched the tiny uzi on his chest, then buttoned his shirt.<br/>And the air was shining, the sun warm and blinding and he walked with his giant strides, his back straight, the wind in his hair: he had his brothers walking beside him, the sumptuous golden rings on his fingers, the shiny buckles, and nothing else could be as much exciting. Not even a good fuck. Actually no, his brothers waiting outside for them… that's what was as much exciting. They were all there, those damned bastards, beyond those shitty gates, whistling, screaming, roaring, clapping. Chibs, Miles, Opie, Kozik ...Jesus Christ, his brothers...<br/>They all embraced, one after the other, making rude jokes and yet finding themselves in that iron bond that went beyond anything. As if each of them had lacked something of all the others, and now they had to go back to being one. Finally there he was, that blonde pussy, smiling slyly waving his kut.<br/><em>"Kozik, you moron ..."<br/></em> It was there, on display on his chest, that patch for which Kozik had fought so much and to which Tig had opposed with equal tenacity. SONS OF ANARCHY ORIGINAL REDWOOD. It all vanished: his spite of pure pride, the frustration, the grudge, the bullshit. There was only one brother there to welcome him. With the kut on, the real one ...<br/>He burst out laughing.<br/>"I knew you'd vote in while I was gone, you pussy!" he exclaimed before hugging him in a bear hug that filled years of misunderstanding. Kozik returned his embrace, then threw his kut into his arms. His patch.<br/>No, there was something even more exciting than getting out of prison, hugging his brothers again. Put the kut back on. HIS OWN KUT. Made of leather and blood. And if earlier had back in his skin by wearing the rings, now he had took back also his beating heart and the purpose of his life. He put his dark glasses on, fastened his helmet.<br/>"Thanks, Stockton, it's been a real pleasure." Tig could barely hear Clay above the noise of the bikes, ready to ride. "Let's get the hell outta here!"<br/>Tig roared his Dyna. Here it is, his life.<br/><em>"Let's go home, little monster ..." </em>and the darkness, the orange lights and the cold were gone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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